


The Myriad Choices of His Fate

by aactionjohnny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy, outside perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-20 04:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Temeluchus is the angel of torment. Who better to spy on the traitor and decide his fate? Too bad he’s not very good at his job. What he finds out about Aziraphale, and Crowley, and about being human is something he’s never considered.Meanwhile, the odd couple finally puts in words the nature of their relationship. Sort of.The three ethereal beings have to do something to save themselves.





	1. Drank Sangria in the Park

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in this fandom. Like so many others, the show has ruined my life and I’m smitten. Temeluchus is a dork and I love the husbands and I love their love.
> 
> And the velvet underground if you couldn’t tell.

He presses his back against the rough bark of a tree. Nervous, looking criminal in his heavy disguise. Well, not much of a disguise. He’s simply overdressed for the early autumn, a bulky gray knit hat pulled down to his eyebrows. Having a body is perilous, and he feels it should be enough of a punishment. 

 

Temeluchus, the angel of torment, standing sweating behind a large oak, notebook in hand. He’s been sent to spy on the rogue, the traitor. Right now his target is sitting alone on a tartan quilt, opening a wicker basket. Temeluchus writes:

 

_ Subject is smiling and looking around as if waiting for someone. No suspicious activity. Will continue to monitor. _

 

He knows why he’s been assigned this job. He needs to prove himself worthy of his title, because so far he’s done a very poor job. Too lenient, at times too cruel, punishing the wrong crimes and forgiving the ones that Gabriel feels are unforgivable. Temeluchus has yet to understand his rubric. He knows he ought to hope he’ll find Aziraphale making some terrible mistake, doing some unforgivable misdeed, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased to find the angel doing nothing but having a picnic. 

 

And then the suspicious activity begins.  _ I’ll be damned. _ Infamous, skulking and slithering like a lothario, the demon Crowley saunters down the cobblestone path toward the quilt, toward the angel. Temeluchus grips his notepad close to his chest, expecting a chill to run through him. For all his time as the tormentor, he’s rarely been so close to the opposition. But...nothing. He feels nothing from him. Or, wait—

 

_ Subject Two emits a warmth unknown to me. Perhaps he has spent too much time on Earth. As he approaches Subject One the leaves of the overhanging tree branch seem to shiver. There is no wind. Subject One grins like an idiot. _

 

He scribbles hastily as Crowley takes a seat beside the angel on the quilt. Under his arm he has a dark bottle, probably human wine.

 

_ Subjects have taken to imbibing alcohol, no doubt to cope with the ennui of having a body. _

 

A young woman walks by Temeluchus, peering at his notebook and his hunched posture. He rights himself and coughs, knowing then that he must look suspicious. If the Subjects notice him he’s done for, and not just because Gabriel will lambaste him for hours. A worse punishment than having a body.

 

It’s too fragile and short. Not much taller than a human teenage child. No doubt a slight from the quartermaster, jealous of Temeluchus’s punitive duties and authority. 

 

Newly encouraged to be discreet, he hides his notepad behind a book. Gabriel miracled it for him as part of his disguise. A book so unnoteworthy and common that it could quite possibly do the  _ opposite _ of attract attention. An old copy of  _ Tristan _ , of which Temeluchus understood none. Gabriel described it as the pinnacle of human foolishness, and so far Temeluchus was inclined to agree. Stupid, to risk one’s life for a star-crosses love, to run away, to die for it. There were certainly better things to do with one’s time.

 

He rounds the tree and sits beneath it, making sure he has a clear view of the Subjects, and is able to catch the gist of their conversation.

 

Crowley pulls a cassette player from— nowhere, seemingly, and sets it between them on the blanket.

 

“I’m gonna make you like The Velvet Underground,” he says, slipping a tape into the deck. “They’re not so bad, I promise. It’s Lou Reed you’d not have liked, really.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Aziraphale asks, plunging a corkscrew into the wine bottle. “Didn’t I meet him? Weird hair? Quiet? Collected soup cans?”

 

“That was his friend, Andy,” Crowley says. 

 

“Strange fellow.”

 

“Like you’ve the right…”

 

At his chiding, they toast. The tape plays at a reasonable volume. Aziraphale does seem to listen intently, sipping his wine with a smile on his face. Crowley leans back, eventually all but laying down on the blanket, tapping his long fingers on his wine glass to the beat of the music. 

 

They go on talking. So few words are exchanged, Temeluchus feels as though they need not communicate aloud at all. There seems to be so much unspoken. And when they do speak, it is kind and so soft he can barely hear it over the music.

 

“New bow tie?”

 

“You don’t like it?”

 

“Didn’t say that.”

 

A moment’s pause. Temeluchus feels some pocket of air pass through him that feels tender and new.

 

“Looks nice, Angel. Bit more modern than what you’ve usually got on.”

 

“Oh, thank you.” His voice is light with laughter. “The yellow color...it’s um…” He fumbles, turning the wine glass in his hand and then taking a more generous sip than before. Crowley pulls his sunglasses down his nose a bit.

 

“Reminded you of something?”

 

“...yes.” 

 

At that, Aziraphale seems to ease. He relaxes his posture and scoots closer to Crowley on the blanket, leaning down almost as far. 

 

“You’ll like this one,” Crowley says, pressing the fast forward button on the cassette player. “It’s a little more...low-key.”

 

Temeluchus squirms a bit, trying to get a little closer without it being obvious. He hears a woman’s voice, low, singing almost as if it’s a lullaby.

 

_ “I'll be your mirror _

_ Reflect what you are, in case you don't know _

_ I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset _

_ The light on your door to show that you're home” _

 

That warm, unfamiliar feeling seems to grow in Temeluchus’s chest again. On the blanket, their wine glasses gone empty, the Subjects smile at one another. Temeluchus feels his toes curl in his sneakers. Such discomfort. Having a body is torture unlike anything he’s ever committed.

 

Crowley reaches out a hand and runs it down Aziraphale’s face, a thumb beneath his eye, the softest touch. Unlike anything Temeluchus has ever seen. He finds his own hand flies to his warm cheek, running fingers over his own skin, wondering what the fuss is all about. His lips hang open and he drops his pen in his lap. 

 

Whatever business they’re up to, he’s not quite sure how to put it into words Gabriel will find satisfactory. He stays until they finish their bottle of wine, taking brief notes and trying desperately not to enjoy whatever a velvet underground is.

 

_ Subject One seems charmed by the snake, which is backwards. Human music is sentimental or about drugs usually. No crimes against the order of things have been discussed during this picnic. Should find them in a more secretive location. _

 

They fold up their blanket and leave, heading toward the gate at the park’s exit. Temeluchus, too, decided to call it a day.


	2. Waiting for my man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temeluchus attempts some more recon. Aziraphale and Crowley are cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok listen I’m at work and it’s a slow day and this is what happens. I’ve written 3 chapters and I’m so psyched about it. Save me.

The sunlight trickles in through the thin space between the curtains and the window’s edge, bathing the bookshelves and Persian rugs in a warm yellow. One could say it is his favorite time of day, and it might have been, had it been at a later hour, when Crowley was more motivated to leave his apartment and come over. Truly, nothing could be Aziraphale’s favorite anything without his dear friend at his side. It had gotten so much easier to admit that, of late, now that no one was watching.

 

He stirs his tea, noting the rhythm of the stainless steel spoon on the ceramic mug. Like a waltz. Another dance he couldn’t do, and he kept putting off trying to learn it. There were better things to do, because no one really waltzed anymore. And were he to waltz, everyone would expect it to be with some fancy woman in an impossibly large, grotesque ball gown. No thank you. 

 

He pulls up the blinds on the front door, smiling at the near-empty street. Everyone is either asleep or at their jobs. He expected a slow day, as they were all slow days, because it was a book shop. Were he strapped for money, maybe he would be a bit more worried. But all he desired was to spread a little joy with each sale, and have everyone leave a satisfied customer. 

 

As he flips the sign to read  _ open, _ a young man appears just inches from the glass window, staring in with a sort of wide-eyes determination that doesn’t fail to confuse. An avid reader? A religious fanatic? Goodness knows he doesn’t need to be preached to. It wouldn’t work anyway. Aziraphale opens the door, but does not yet let the young man in.

 

“Hello young man,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Are you quite alright?” Maybe he’s homeless. His clothes are too big and he looks pale and nervous. But the boy has one of those faces you have to swear you’ve seen before.

 

“Come to buy books. At this book shop.” He adjusts his large hat, as if terrified it will fall off. 

 

“Well then you are in the right place!” Aziraphale chimes, stepping back to allow him in. “Take your time. If you have anything you’re looking for please feel free to ask. I’ll be in the back office.”

 

Pleased that he would be able to sell books so early in the morning, he practically skipped back to his desk. He was penning a letter to an old friend with whom he would only communicate by post, lest the aged artist see that Aziraphale still looked just as young as he did when they met. And poor Peter, how his mind had started to go…

 

He hears for a while the soft, slow, familiar creaking if someone walking across the shop, browsing. He wonders what sort of thing this boy is looking for, and his curiosity and passion for literature overcomes his attention.

 

“Excuse me? Young man, um…?”

 

He’s silent for a moment, blinking.

 

“Um...Tim.” He holds out a hand for Aziraphale to shake. 

 

“Mr. Fell, just like on the sign,” he says, noting the odd strength of Tim’s grip. “Is there something you’re particularly interested in?”

 

More silence.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“I’d be happy to help you find it.”

 

“Dunno,” Tim mumbles, rubbing under his nose and looking around at the wide array of books. “Do you...do you get a lot of people in here?”

 

“Ah, enough to get by,” he says. “I’ve not seen you before, though. New in town?”

 

Tim nods, his eyes falling to the poetry section. The collected works of W.H. Auden lay displayed on a small table.

 

“Yes,” Tim answers. “Listen, I, um…” He stammers oddly, tapping his fingers together. “I—“

 

The door swings open, wide and with little warning.

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, sing-song, no longer so ashamed as to sound so excited to see him. Crowley, too, smiles wide and holds out his arms in a greeting.

 

Aziraphale can practically feel the eyes of the young man on him as the two embrace. Each and every time, it is as if they’ve been apart for centuries. He wonders one day if it will ever feel dull, and he can’t fathom it happening.

 

“Brought croissants,” Crowley said, placing a paper bag on the countertop. 

 

“Oh, but—“

 

“Relax, Angel, there’s a good French bakery by my place.”

 

Aziraphale looks at Tim, whose eyebrows are raised and who is nervously gripping at his own clothes.  _ Angel _ , how that always makes him giddy. And always, when Crowley says it in front of other people, he worries they’ll be suspicious and find out what he is. But then he remembers: to humans, it’s as common as  _ dear, darling,  _ even the more rude  _ baby. _

 

“I’ll, um…” Tim says, backing away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’ll leave you two alone, I’ll come back tomorrow, I, ah...forgot my wallet.”

 

Without another word, without another spared glance, he’s out the door. Almost as if he had vanished entirely.

 

“Crowley I am afraid that young man might be on some sort of drugs,” Aziraphale says, pressing his fingers to his chin.

 

“Gonna save him, are you?” He grins, turning away to go make tea, placing a hand so softly on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he passes.

 

“Well, no, I suppose it’s none of my business.”

 

“We’re not supposed to interfere so much anymore, Angel. If you go out of your way to save every  _ wayward soul _ that comes into your shop, well…”

 

“Well?”

 

“Won’t have any time for me.”

 

Aziraphale bites the insides of his cheeks. He is always saying such things…

 

“Heaven forbid.”

 

They toasted with their teacups, to nothing but the day.

 

—

 

Temeluchus exhales as he closes the door of the shop behind him.

 

“Shit,” he whispers. How is he supposed to do this? Each time he gets near the two of them, it feels as though the ground is being pulled out from under these stupid, human feet. Is that just what it’s like to have a body? To always feel unsteady and strange? Gabriel said it felt just the opposite. 

 

Then again, Gabriel says a lot of things. He says it was wrong to punish those men in suits who embezzled funds, and wrong to torture the corrections officers who got a little too rough with prisoners. He said he should be tougher on people who disobey the government and take revenge on those who wronged them. But what does he know? He’s not the angel of torment.

 

Temeluchus is. Even if he’s shit at it.

 

Regretfully he made his way to their designated meeting place to report on his findings thus far. There, in the bright, white basement of the supermarket, he found Gabriel, wearing a white turtleneck sweater and pleated pants.

 

“Temeluchus!” he says, cheerful but conniving as ever. “Nice of you to be on time.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

“Tell me what you’ve— oh take off that ridiculous hat, there’s no one else here.” Gabriel takes hold of the oversized knit cap and pulls it off, pushing it into Temeluchus’s chest for him to take. “Now you look like an angel and not a hobo.”

 

Beneath the hat he has a golden circlet branded across his forehead. It actually felt nice for his skin to be able to breathe again.

 

That’s stupid, skin doesn’t breathe. And relief is something humans feel when they take off their socks.

 

“Right. Um…” Temeluchus clears his throat. “So far I haven’t found anything suspicious. I don’t think they’re planning anything at all. If they are, they haven’t talked about it.”

 

“Then what  _ do _ they talk about?”

 

“Croissants…”

 

Gabriel sighs. Temeluchus has heard that same disappointed sound more times than he’d like to admit.

 

“Look, kiddo, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. I mean, obviously. But after what those two did, I refuse to believe that they’re spending all their time...what? Picnicking?”

 

“Actually—“

 

“Taking romantic canoe rides down the Thames? Operating a small chicken farm? Come on, Temeluchus.”

 

“Alright. Yeah, alright, Gabriel. I’ll try harder.”

 

“Because I am  _ NOT—“ _ He takes a steadying breath. “I am not letting Aziraphale screw things up for us again. I need your full commitment.” 

 

Gabriel places his hands on Temeluchus’s slender, sloping shoulders.

 

“Got it?”

 

“Got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Archangel “per my last email” Gabriel
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback so far! Wondering how much of a Thing this will turn into if I let it. Kind of want to involve more of the characters if it fits. We’ll see! I am very tired and small,


	3. Downy Sins of Streetlight Fancies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wants to tell Aziraphale how he feels, however that is. And, we get a glimpse at why Temeluchus was chosen as the angel of torment.

Crowley waits in the rumbling Bentley, flipping through his CD collection to try and find the right music for the occasion. The occasion was a Tuesday, but he had plans. It was supposed to be a clear night with a gorgeous Autumn sunset, one of the wonders of living on Earth that he felt he took for granted after a while.

 

“Oh, would you hurry up…” He presses his hand on the horn to urge Aziraphale out of the book shop. He settles on Hunky Dory, sliding the CD into the player and leaning back some in his leather seat. 

 

When Aziraphale appears in the doorway, Crowley can’t help how his hand is compelled to wave, how his face screws up in a gleeful smile not befitting a demon. Then again, does he really have to stick to those rules anymore? He’s never been a very good demon, he’s come to realize. Not that he’d say it out loud. Even his most heinous temptations had rarely resulted in bloodshed. He blamed it, de jure, on the burden of all the paperwork he’d have to do, never telling his superiors that what he really feared was guilt. Guilt and the devastating look on Aziraphale’s face.

 

“Come on, Angel, we’ll miss it,” he says, putting the car in gear once Aziraphale buckles his seat belt. 

 

“Not with your driving,” he jabs, gently. 

 

Crowley knows he could just slow down. He knows there’s no need to barrel through traffic like an untethered boulder on the proverbial mountain. He could slow down and Aziraphale wouldn’t have to grip the dashboard in fear. He might have gone with him, that night, decades ago…

 

But he doesn’t slow down. A long, quiet car ride might leave too much space for talking. But so might the bottle of wine in the back trunk, and the pretty vision of a sunset. Too romantic. Too conducive for brutal, loving honesty. Fuck. Maybe they ought to have just stayed in...the joyful sound of Bowie interrupts his worrying.

 

_ “Fill your heart with love today! _

_ Don’t play the game of tag!” _

 

He grunts. Easy for him to say, being dead and all. Even when he was alive Bowie gave him shit. And now, beyond the grave, living in one of the more comfortable circles of hell, he still wouldn’t let up. 

 

“Something wrong?” Aziraphale asks, in that gentle, genuine tone. Each time he worries it sounds as if he’s standing over a bloodied body. 

 

“Nah, I—“

 

In the rear view mirror he sees the oddest thing. A young man, willowy, crossing the street, staring somehow through the back window of the Bentley as if time and space have slowed. He looks familiar. That weird cokehead from the book shop, yeah, that’s him, looking all strung out and creepy. Crowley almost feels bad for him. Almost.

 

“You were saying?”

 

“...it’s nothing. Listen to this one.”

 

He turns up the volume and skips ahead to  _ Song for Bob Dylan _ . 

 

When they arrive at the hilltop, he turns off the car and the music abruptly stops. The sun is still hovering too high above the horizon to turn the sky all manner of colors.

 

“Why are we here?” Aziraphale asks. “I mean, in particular?”

 

Crowley sighs and leans his head back against the seat. Asking questions only ever got them in trouble, so why did Aziraphale keep doing it?

 

“It’s what you  _ do,”  _ he answers after a moment. “Like picnics and bringing pastries.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Though he agreed, Crowley knew there was little understanding. How does one angel read so many books and yet manage to be completely ignorant of context clues?

 

“We spend all our time together, Angel.”

 

“Yes, isn’t it delightful? No one to bother us—“

 

“Humans would say that means something.”

 

“Does it not?”

 

Crowley shrugs and cranks the window open for some fresh air.

 

“I mean... _ something _ something. People look at us like it’s something other than what it is.”

 

Aziraphale opens his window in turn. The sun is creeping lower toward the horizon.

 

“...and what is it?” he asks, that heartbreaking tone. It feels like a knife is piercing Crowley’s chest, each and every time. After a sharp breath, he places his hand on the center console, just on top of Aziraphale’s.

 

“Wouldn’t know what to call it.”

 

Aziraphale laughs and turns his palm upward, squeezing his hand.

 

“They have a word for that, you know.”

 

—

 

Temeluchus watches as the black Bentley disappears down the street, impossibly fast and impossibly gleaming. A vehicle fit for a villainous snake like Crowley.

 

_ Subject Two is preoccupied with human trappings. Maybe he’s a car thief. _

 

He wonders where they’re going, but he doesn’t follow. The decision makes him feel as though Gabriel is right behind him, breathing down his neck.  _ Come on, kiddo!  _ He shivers. There was just something so daunting when that car drove by, some aura burgeoning from within the chassis that it nearly sent him kareening to the pavement. Similar to what he’d felt at the park, and at the bookshop, but with a new sort of nervousness he knew he would never be able to place.

 

He decides to take some time to consider what their punishment will be, whatever it is they’re up to. He can wait until tomorrow to do more investigation. Torment is an  _ art.  _ You can’t rush it. And he needs Gabriel off his back. To impress the archangel is to earn respect and maybe some peace and quiet.

 

They should probably suffer together. There’s a poetry to that, and Aziraphale is a man of letters, so it would be miraculously cruel. Last time they’d been punished they’d proven themselves invincible, but no one is immune to pain. No one is immune to Temeluchus. Maybe he’d chain them together at the ankles and demand they climb a rocky cliff face, stripped of all their powers. Maybe he would trap them in a large chamber full of wind that never stops. Maybe he would create illusions to drive them to irreparable insanity.

 

Even if Temeluchus is incompetent, no one can say he’s not creative. It is this artfulness that earns him his qualifications. To be the angel of torment is not about being a bad man, necessarily. It’s about knowing how to be unforgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having a lot of fun. Comments appreciated! I’ll keep writing tomorrow to keep the momentum going. Can I hear a wahoo etc


	4. Oh, Sweet Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take a small step toward recognition. Temeluchus goes over his findings and decides his next move.

They sit hand-in-hand until the world grows dark around them. How frightening it must be, Aziraphale thinks, to be human, and not know where the sun is going once it’s out of your view. To not know how it got there, how much work went into it. To them it was just a lamp that helped their flowers to grow. It was just the source of a watercolor sunset, the backdrop to romantic moments.

This was what that is, right? Holding hands with someone dear who has just fumbled over his words, trying to put words to what you share. He has to guess this is what human teenagers must feel. Though Aziraphale is no stranger to uncertainty, this is something else entirely.

He assesses the facts: does he love Crowley? Yes, unequivocally. Does he wish to continue spending each day with him? Of course. When they touch, does it feel more divine than if god Herself were in his soul? Heavens, yes. But it’s the  _ saying-it-all-out-loud _ bit that stops him every time. Any human, mortal label seems to fall short of doing it justice.

Crowley turns the music back on, switching out the CD. Aziraphale doesn’t bother to see what it is. He’s grown, of late, to trust his tastes a little better. This time, a woman’s voice, soprano and wild.

 

_ “My old man, he’s a singer in the park…” _

 

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asks, turning the key to start the engine again. “Anything you want. I’m all yours.”

Is he not always, already? He’s never needed to say so before.

“Best go home…” Aziraphale says. “Tomorrow’s usually busy, I’d like to open early.”

“Ah…”

“You can...stay if you wish.”

“Oh?”

“I think your plants might deserve a night off from your cruelty.”

Crowley snorts out a laugh and puts the Bentley in gear.

“I’d like that, Angel. We can get delivery.”

A night in. Is that not what couples,  _ human _ couples, do when they’re too tired? They sacrifice their musical tastes for one another. They order sushi even if they don’t like it as much as their beloved. They meet, century after century, coyly becoming more and more devoted until the idea of being without them would feel like losing a part of your celestial soul…

He drives notably slower on the way back to the book shop.

Once inside, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, turning on the dim, vintage lamps and the record player. Crowley, ever sauntering, meanders around the front room of the shop until his attention falls to the open collection of W.H. Auden poems. His fingers scan the lines lazily.

_ “‘We must love one another or die…’”  _ he reads from the page. “Guess that’s true, right Angel?”

“H..hm?” Aziraphale presses his hands together. His palms feel sweaty.

“Haven’t we proven it? I mean, _ we _ didn’t die.”

“Um-- yes…”

They are very close now. Heavens, how he wishes Crowley would take off those sunglasses. He wants so badly to be able to figure out what he’s  _ thinking _ .

“Ah, you know, Crowley…” he falters, his eyes falling to the open book. “Later on Auden omitted that line, finding it too sentimental.”

“Oh?”

“He changed it, to ah, _ ‘we must love one another _ and _ die.’ _ ”

Crowley grins. He places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

It is stranger and more beautiful than even the most brilliant poets can describe it. There is no phrase even in _ Lady Chatterley's Lover _ that can tell the truth of what it is like to have one’s most beloved’s lips pressed to their cheek. How it curls the toes and dizzies the head. Aziraphale feels, for the first time, how necessary it is for the body to breathe. He exhales shakily.

“Oh, Crowley…”

“It’s what you  _ do _ , right?”

They do not need to sleep, and yet they do this evening, if only to do so side-by-side. Sprawled across the tartan quilts and Egyptian cotton, limbs in a loose pile, smiles on their faces, mumbling what human lovers might call sweet nothings.

“I feel like a fool, Crowley.”

“Why’s that?”

“We could have lay like this so many nights before.”

“It’s not like we’re  _ mortal, _ Angel.”

“Then, this and every night going forward?”

“S’long as we’ve not got things to do.”

And for now, their responsibilities are but minor. They must simply wake in the morning, and he must simply sell books. They must love one another and live forever.

 

\--

 

Temeluchus sits in the dark corner of an all-night cafe, looking over his notes. Studies of his Subjects, and brainstorming for torment. One page just says:

 

_ Maybe it will be really cold forever and nothing will warm them _ .

 

This human coffee is delightful. Inspiring. It spurs him on.

 

_ Subject One carries such a strange glow. When Subject Two is near, it redoubles and I feel as though I might fall down. Is this their plan? To defeat their superiors with this strange magic? I’ve reported the sensation to Gabriel. He says he’s not sure what it is, and should be followed closely. _

_ Thus far I’ve not heard them discuss plans for usurpation and the like. They talk a lot about traveling. Perhaps one of these places will be the catalyst for their sins. I have gone over the photos Michael sent of the Subjects together. Years and years they’ve been meeting up, clandestine but comfortable. I’ve been continuing to read Tristan. Is it something like that? Do they risk their destruction only for one another, now that they’ve deemed the world safe from war? _

_ I’d have thought that stupid, days ago. But these two are odd. Inseparable. Perhaps co-dependent. I’ve no measure for what’s healthy in this sort of...relationship. Surely there’s no behavior befitting an angel involved. Isolde was so foolish and cruel to those around her simply so that she could have Tristan. But I don’t see Subject One as being cruel to anyone. Even me, acting so strange in his shop. _

_ I need to go back there.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sets my heart on fire outside of my chest)
> 
> comments appreciated <3
> 
> the plot will advance very soon.


	5. Who Loves The Sun?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temeluchus gets found out.

 

He waits outside of the bookshop in the early morning, a cup of coffee to-go in his hands. It’s beginning to get chilly, and for once his woolen hat feels appropriate for the weather. He adjusts it over his brow, squinting into the shop window to make sure his disguise is in order. Temeluchus hopes he’s given no indication to the Subjects that he’s anything more than a local. It can’t be that hard, right? The two of them have managed it for centuries, living among the humans, doing as they do, enough to get by. Learning to like the things they like. Learning to touch the way they touch. 

Temeluchus blames it on the years. Surely no one could spend that long down on Earth and not go native. He sips his coffee. It’s getting cold.

Through the cracks in the blinds he can see them. He can see the steam rising off of their tea and the sleepiness in their eyes. He sees how their fingers lace loosely together. And, by chance, illuminated by a thin stream of sunlight, he sees them kiss. Chaste, their mouths hardly open, pressing their sweet grins together.

He drops his coffee to the sidewalk. 

“Damn…” He shakes out his hand, trying to get the drips off, trying not to get any on his white-gray clothes. There it was, that feeling again. He was not so stupid as to not have ideas as to what it was. It was not the sin of lust, for he had punished that before, in its most depraved and unforgivable forms. Men drawn to take advantage of foolish young women, and the like. But this was even more pure than a  _ forgivable _ lust. 

Through the window he could hear music, the lyrics muffled but the tune fairly clear. 

They join hands, facing one another, leaning their chins on one another’s shoulders. Swaying. They are not very good at dancing, but still the sight causes the heat to rise in Temeluchus’s face. It is not as though he has not shared in physical contact. The twisting of a knife in someone’s chest, Gabriel’s heavy hands on his shoulders. But never has it seemed so tender. 

He hides around the corner, steadying himself. He thinks of Gabriel, how he’s due to meet with him later in the day and how disappointed he will be and how curious and how angry, to hear that Temeluchus has found nothing save for what he’s fairly certain is love.

He could always make something up, he realizes, watching as Aziraphale turns the sign to open the shop. He could say they, together, are going to try and overthrow the Kingdom of Heaven, and that it would be best to make examples of them. There has to be some other way for them both to die, even if not from holy water or hellfire. Everyone can bleed if you try hard enough, Temeluchus has learned.

And yet there is a tremor in his chest that urges him to think of ways he could make it painless and fast. Most of his torment is slow and agonizing, giving the sinner time to think about how they could have avoided their fate. But he cannot escape the sensation. He thinks it might be guilt.

 

\--

 

Crowley remembers when the sun was created. It was around the same time as the stars. He thought,  _ good God, that’s bright. Are we sure about this? Giant flaming ball this close to the Earth?  _ That was one of his first questions which led to his eventual fall. Since then he’s had no fondness for the sun, but, standing in the morning light, his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, he cannot be angry with it. His Angel is a bit like sunshine, were it a little gentler. 

“Don’t open today,” he mumbles. “People don’t need to read today. Let’s go for breakfast.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, soft and unsure of such sweet words, “we have eons to go for breakfast together. But my sale on Russian translations will only last one day.”

Crowley sighs, still smiling despite his disappointment. There will still be sunny weather, and that always makes the humans cheerful. He is lucky, he supposes. He has an approximation of a human body, and he has sunshine incarnate.

All these sentiments have been building in his head for centuries. Whenever tempted to say it, he turns tail and gets mean. When he wished to say, _ I saved those books for you because the thought of you losing anything makes me want to dunk my head in a bucket of holy water, _ he instead told Aziraphale to shut up. It’s a wonder he’s been put up with all these years.

“We’ll go for dinner. Wherever you like,” Aziraphale promises. He turns the sign on the front door, his hands always so careful and precise. He seems to handle each and every thing as if it is delicate and precious. The pages of a book, the hilt of a flaming sword.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale says. “There’s that young man again.”

Across the street, Crowley can see Tim fidgeting with the brim of his hat.

“Is he gonna buy something this time or just stand around being weird?”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Demon…”

Aziraphale shoots him a tired, if affectionate, look. The bell on the door chimes as Tim walks in, his eyes wide as ever. The smile on his face looks unnatural and nervous.

Crowley takes Aziraphale by the arm and leads him over behind the counter.

“Don’t like him,” Crowley says, mumbling, secretive.

“What has gotten you so worked up? He’s just an avid reader--”

“No, I mean...I get a feeling. There’s something not normal about him, look…”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s shoulders and turns him back out toward the front room of the shop. Tim is hiding behind an upside down copy of  _ Anna Karenina _ , peering over it, staring directly at them. 

“Don’t you sense that?”

He’s silent for a moment. Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s pale eyes trace the shape of their strange acquaintance. 

“Most odd…”

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” Crowley says, placing one possessive hand on Aziraphale’s back, and then he rounds the counter and makes a sauntering bee-line for Tim. “Young man!”

“Sir…” Tim holds  _ Anna Karenina  _ closer to his face.

“You’ve been in here two days in a row now, and you’ve not bought anything.”

“I just...I’m browsing. Seeing if I like it--”

“Ah,” Crowley interjects, holding up a finger and then taking hold of the book. “Then it might help you--” He turns the book right side up. “--to try it like this.”

“Oh--” Tim gulps. “Silly me. My mistake. You see I’m just--”

“What?” Crowley steps toward him, seeming to tower over him like a man twice his size. “What are you?”

“Crowley--” Aziraphale pipes up, attempting to quell him.

“I know you’re not just some weird kid,” Crowley goes on, backing Tim into the bookshelf. His back hits it and a cloud of dust from the books seems to cloak him. “You’re either a thief or you’re something not of this world and I just can’t figure out which, so you’re going to tell me. And then you’re going to leave me and my Angel alone.”

“Crowley, really, it’s not necessary…”

Crowley takes hold of Tim’s collar.

“What. Are. You.”

The young man looks as though he might faint. Crowley knows how his snake eyes can terrify the strongest and bravest of men down to their very core. He knows that his voice can make even the most reticent people talk.

Tim exhales and his shoulders slope. After a moment’s hesitation, raising his eyebrows as if to make sure any movement won’t get him incinerated, he lifts his hand and places it on top of his hat. Crowley, ever impatient, doesn’t wait for him to remove it. Instead he pulls the hat off of Tim’s head and throws it to the floor.

The golden branding is unmistakably angelic. The glow of his eyes, now unshielded by deceit, tell them everything they need to know.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale says. “Young Tim…”

“T....Temeluchus…”

Aziraphale’s jaw hangs open and he rounds the counter, staring in disbelief.

“The angel of torment? But you’re…” He looks Temeluchus up and down, motioning vaguely as his willowy shape and meek affect.

“Yes, I know…” He looks to the ground between his and Crowley’s feet. Crowley releases his hold, but still stays close. “I’m very creative, really.”

“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asks, approaching, laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, easing him into retreat. Always he is slavish to his affections.

Temeluchus bends down to pick up his hat. He fiddles with it, holding it to his chest.

“I’m supposed to get you in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to sincerely thank everyone for reading and commenting. I've been in such a creative rut the past month and this is really helping me get back into my routine of writing each day, in one capacity or another. It also means a lot to me that you seem to be enjoying my OC! I know that's not always a selling point for choosing to read a fic but I've really come to love Temeluchus, and I think I can maybe use him as a means of getting these two idiots to say they love one another outright. He's going to give them the one extra brain cell to share that will get them there lol
> 
> Again, thank you. I can't wait to continue this.


	6. All Tomorrow’s Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temeluchus gets drunk and our boys think up a plan.

Aziraphale puts on some tea while they give Temeluchus a chance to explain. It was only after an hour or so of bickering that Crowley relented enough to allow him to sit down and not feel threatened. But something about the dulcet tone of the angel’s voice seemed to calm him, convince him.

 

“Gabriel just won’t give up his vendetta, Aziraphale,” Temeluchus says, graciously accepting his cup of tea. He prefers coffee, but he knows he’s in no position to be picky. “But it really doesn’t seem like there’s anything I can report back to him. You two are just…” He motions vaguely at the two of them, standing close together, Crowley’s arm slid far across the desk, behind Aziraphale’s back.

 

“Just…?” Crowley asks, ever-suspicious.

 

“Happy, I guess. Together. Isn’t that all you want? Not to usurp the kingdom of heaven but just to...live?”

 

Aziraphale nods as he blows on his tea to cool it.

 

“So what’s the problem, then?” Crowley asks, folding his arms. “Can’t you just run along back to head office and tell them we’re minding our own?”

 

“Yes, but…” Temeluchus stares into the murky liquid in his teacup. Too much milk. “I’ll lose my job.”

 

“Heaven forbid,” Crowley deadpans.

 

“My dear, we really don’t want young Temeluchus to be in trouble, do we?” Aziraphale gently suggests.

 

“Why the fuck not? He came here to get us punished.”

 

“It’s not just that I’ll be sacked.” Temeluchus grips hard onto his teacup.

 

“Oh?” Aziraphale puts his cup down on the desk and pulls a chair closer to Temeluchus, sitting down and leaning forward.

 

“Gabriel really wants this, you know. For you to be caught red-handed. I have a feeling if I don’t give him something he’s willing to make something up. Frame you, or something.”

 

“Nonsense! He’s an angel, we don’t—“

 

Crowley places a quieting hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He is so gentle, for a demon…

 

“And I…” Temeluchus takes a deep breath. He downs his tea as if it will cure him of his nerves. “I had decided not to get very creative in tormenting you two. Seeing you, I just…” He places his teacup on a nearby table. “I didn’t want to make you suffer.”

 

“How benevolent,” Crowley says, making certain Temeluchus can see him roll his yellow eyes behind his glasses.

 

“What I’m saying is,” Temeluchus protests, gathering the courage to stand up and approach the demon. “Gabriel will not be as merciful. And he’s not even creative. It will be good, old-fashioned suffering for both of you, if he’s in charge of it.”

 

There is silence. Crowley removes his sunglasses and looks to Aziraphale, seeming to study him. Is that what this feeling is, the one that has been rumbling in Temeluchus’s chest all this time? The overwhelming desire to see someone safe and free from pain?

 

“...sounds as though he will not, ah, do it with style, right, Crowley?” Aziraphale says, timid, despondent.

 

Crowley frowns, defeated. How easily the two of them seem to give in to one another, as if their love has stripped them of their willpower. Love? Yes, it must be, for they approach one another and loosely join hands. Isn’t it foolish? To be weak for another person? Temeluchus supposes he’s no better, having grown weak for the two of them. He knows then that, even if there had been something they were plotting, he would have made it so easy for them. Between them there is passion, and crimes of passion are always the most difficult to punish. It is crimes of calculation and callousness that he enjoys making recompense for.

 

“Well, alright, Angel…” Crowley says, running a thumb beneath Aziraphale’s eye. That same soft touch, and Temeluchus touches his own cheek again. He finds he wants someone else to do it for him. Not Crowley, because he’s spoken for. Some nameless, shapeless person that could make him smile the same way… “But what are we supposed to do?”

 

Aziraphale grins like he knows something.

 

“I do have quite an idea, my dear. But perhaps we could tempt young Temeluchus to a glass of wine, first?”

 

More human pleasures. The opposite of coffee. The drink of love.

 

Hours pass, and they drink. Temeluchus enjoys the sensation, how he seems to sink into the couch and be unable to stop his smiling. Perhaps this is why they’ve both stayed on Earth for so long. It seems to make them gravitate even closer to one another. It makes them put records on and sway. Eventually they dance. Badly, of course, if Temeluchus is to be any judge of it, which he isn’t.

 

“So I’m thinking—“ Aziraphale says, twirling beneath Crowley’s arm. “—we could just make something up that we’ve done or are planning to do, you see?” He takes a generous sip of his wine. “And you could pretend to torment us? Is that possible?”

 

“You don’t seem like a very good liar t’me, young Temeluchus,” Crowley accuses, leanings sloppily against a bookcase.

 

“I can…” Oh, he’s not tried to speak very much so far, while drunk. “I can be!” He stands and staggers over, pointing a finger at Crowley. “I’ll tell them I’ve shaved that stuuuupid hair off your head!”

 

Crowley feigns a gasp.

 

“And you—“ Temeluchus points then at Aziraphale. “I’ll starch all of your jackets until they’re uncomfortable!”

 

They laugh and lean to one another. Crowley takes rough hold of Temeluchus’s hand and spins him in a clumsy dance. Their laughter dissolved into contented sighing, and Crowley and Aziraphale fall to the couch, legs in a pile. Temeluchus sits on the floor, eagerly pouring more wine into his cup.

 

“Wh...is this?”

 

“Zinfandel…” Crowley tells him.

 

“S...sinfandel!”

 

“But really, Young T’meluchus,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward. “I do believe we can beat Gabriel at his own game.”

 

“Games!” Crowley shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “We ought to play a drinking game!”

 

Temeluchus points at him in agreement, even if he’s not sure what a drinking game will entail. All he is sure of is that this, being drunk with two people in love, has given him a sort of joy he has only felt during his most creative and lengthy torments.

 

“Drink if you have an...an idea about how to trick Gabr’l!” Aziraphale chimes. They all drink.

 

“Drink if you think Gabriel is a stuffed-shirt—“ Temeluchus takes a break to have a sip. “—two-faced, sweater-wearing...fucking…ass…” They all drink.

 

Crowley is quiet a moment, contemplating his turn.

 

“Drink if you’re irrevocably, abs’lutely and entirrrely in love.”

 

Temeluchus watches as they both down their glasses. He’s been such a fool until now. He’ll have to become a very good liar, if only for their sakes.

 

—

 

Elsewhere, in a place far less rosy, Hastur, Duke of Hell, sits tapping his fingers together in a dark, empty room. The Archdemon has instructed him of his task. To catch Crowley with his pants down, so to speak, and hopefully not literally. Nasty, nasty man, with his beloved angel and his stupid sunglasses. He despises him. Despises what he’s gotten away with, how he murdered his friend, how he thinks he’s so damned suave.

 

Perhaps he can blame some human atrocity on him and set those two lovebirds against one another. That would be most cruel. And cruelty is his only wheelhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temeluchus admiring their love is All of us lol
> 
> Also oh no,

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter @ezrapoundme


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